The Butterfly
by KennKirk
Summary: Germany reflect and grieves over what is lost. Set close to the end of the Second World War. Historical. Rated T for mature ideas.


Exhaustion wore on Ludwig like eyes of a hawk trailing a mouse. Anger, deceit, and the throbbing pain he dared not to mention; but, beat with the steady drain of millions of fading lights. It was like watching the night sky, then suddenly, lights were flashed on and the stars disappeared into the depth of the sky. And when the lights when out, the stars where still gone, they could not be brought back.

Or was the light turning off?

Slugging off his uniform he arranged the hard liquor, the fancy cabinet door broadly opened nearly over following with bottles of hard liquor. The kind of drinks that penetrated his blood to make his deeds seemingly disappear.

They were losing, simple as that. Ludwig knew it was nearly over, and yet no one else could see. They had lost in Budapest; but, that wasn't the throbbing pain. Not even the scars that stretched over his knuckles lining and defining his collarbone.

Gilbert came in. Prussia was still a sorry sight, he was gaunt, his body shrunk and his hair thinned. As much as Germany tried to change that it never seemed to happen.

Prussia scowled turning sharply to leave the house. Calling out, Germany stood, stumbling over the low table ordinate with glasses. Prussia did turn and look back, under his arm a large package was tucked discreetly concealed by newspaper.

He didn't reply, his white eyebrows scrunched in distaste and white lipped in fury.

They had not been on talking terms since the end of the depression. Gilbert in his stubborn Germanic way was silent and withdrawn refusing to speak to his brother. All eye contact and communication stopped in 1941. Even the short clipped greetings gone.

But now, Germany was suffering the wrath of nations, unsettled and scotched in their corner. They were lashing out in refueled vitality. He was watching the crumbling of the tower because of the bone-cold fury he had rallied against himself.

He longed for the days where there was a softness in his brother's stance. Where Gilbert was brutally honest in all matters, especially political. Because Ludwig was feeling like he was sinking into a deep tar of putrid hate.

And no one would look at Ludwig, the man was soft. They only saw Germany, ruthless and sweltering in diminishing glory.

Ludwig called again softly. His drink fell from his grasp as a sudden pain raked through his spine.

The glass shattered, staining and soaking into the floor. The glass like crystal broken beyond repair.

Prussia got a strange look into his eyes, and his defensive stance became confused.

Ludwig felt his cheeks burn and the weight and horror each throb brought to him crushed through the back of man. Guilt and regret tearing man and soul apart; until, only man stood before his greater dead brother.

And his man wailed.

This man crumpled to his knees in terror induced guilt. This man crumpled his head between his knees in mercy, mercy he would never accept, nor would God give.

How hard was it for man to follow blindly with his soul when the body suffered honestly! A soul, that soul that draped itself so willingly and thoroughly into red and black that it felt no grief in the shame it wrecked upon man. And how to follow that when the body wailed for every mistruth, dishonor that shook the core of a single weak heart.

Torn like cloth, like dirty, filthy cloth, one to march again in black, the other to wade among the masses of stripes. And all came in this impenetrable moment that would echo into the soul one day. One day for, far too far into the future for this man.

And God understood cleverly the shame of having love given only because love came like a mother's unfathomable love.

Disgusting as warm arms that soothed sin. Ease would come now, because he suffered for this infinite love. Would the lord steal away these arms in the greatest moment of his suffering? No appeasement or salvation find his tainted soil? His head anointed with ashes. His cup to fall over heavy from innocent lost in the great shame of his dissolute soul.

"Shush, shush" arms warmed him "Hush, shush you will be alright. I'm sorry."

Aimless words that tipped the wealth of repentance, stamped into each extra ration card.

_The lord is my shepherd_

_He restoreth my soul_

_He guideth me in straight paths_

So the man did the only thing he knew how to. Ancient words tumbled out through his lips, salted through moans.

_Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me._

Salvation make him suffer; but, let his repentant show to God. Let someone know of his repentance!

_Sancata Maria, Mater Dei, _

_Ora pro nobis pecatoribus_

_Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae_

For each star that disappeared into the black, never to return even when the lights flickered on. For each black train that haunts his dreams.

_Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,_

_I will fear no evil._

Ancient chants forgotten yet praised, blessed and whispered with all humility of man everyday every hour on the battle front, and frozen in the crystalline snows.

God forgive man for his soul

God forgive a soul for blindness….

He did not want forgiveness.

Ludwig clutched back his ambitionless sobbing both of them. His hands smeared in blood of the glass that shredded his hands into his brother coat. His face burying itself into the crock of his brother's warm beating pulse.

"Why does it hurt?" he pleaded for answers "He promised so much. Why can I hear everyone, I can feel them."

His brother tensed in his arms and Ludwig grasped tighter

"What have I done? My people, he is a liar Prussia. How?"

He felt the pressure of this knees lift and warm wet dribbled down his trousers like his hand. He wailed in grief "Children! The children…"

Add the softness of the couch met him as he was placed down, curling immediately up in humility.

"Oh Lord forgive me! Forgive my sins!"

He would never accept remission.

Ludwig glanced up as Prussia left disappearing into the house. His eyes found the flat bundle Gilbert had been carrying. It was a record. A name that pulsed into the core of his heart clutching and twisting it to bleed out in pitiful wails.

-Mendelssohn.


End file.
